


Sherlock: Blood will Out

by Kitty364



Series: Sherlock Holmes and Sally: love conquers all [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Babies, Baker Street, Death, F/M, Love, Mystery, Pregnant, Sex, Twins, relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2018-10-21 23:31:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10685160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitty364/pseuds/Kitty364
Summary: This is my second fan-fiction; a sequel to 'Sherlock: The Hardest Lesson'. It isn't essential that you read that one, although I am quite proud of that story. I am not sure how long this will be, but I will update this as regularly as I can when life doesn't get in the way. I aim to develop the relationship between Sally and Sherlock, explore how he copes with complex relationships and how this changes the dynamic with John Watson. Whilst there will be some element of a crime for Sherlock to solve, it will focus on everyday life for the consulting detective.Comments are great, and perhaps I can use comments to try and steer the story into a direction that readers may want.





	1. Elementary

The busy London restaurant bustled with diners. The soft clank of cutlery upon the china and the quiet chatter of patrons filled the air, punctuated with the odd giggle over a well-told tale but these sounds were swallowed and muted. Waiters walked past the table in what felt like slow motion; time became unhurried, almost to a standstill. Everything extraneous was blurred into the background, sinking into an inevitable obscurity. For all intents and purposes, Sally Tavistock and Sherlock Holmes were alone in the universe and nothing else mattered.

Walking hand in hand through the streets of London, Sally shivered. She began to wish that she had worn a warmer jacket and had not let her sense of fashion over rule her common sense, although it had been worth it to see Sherlock’s reaction when he saw her in the short sleeved red dress with black heeled boots. Without talking, Sherlock unlinked his hand and moved to remove his coat, holding it open for Sally to slip into. His tall frame meant that the coat was far too long for Sally, but she did not complain and enjoyed the warmth it omitted. She stood still as he bought the coat to a close around her chest and looked into her eyes; her heart skipped a beat. He looked stunningly handsome in a black Spencer Hart suit with a deep purple shirt and she could feel herself begin to get hot, a deep lust burning within her. Sherlock must have felt it too because he took hold of her hand and began walking with purpose, turning down side streets, increasing in speed until he found what he was looking for, a deserted narrow alley.

Sherlock looked quickly down the alley, carefully scanning for evidence of anyone around although Sally was sure no-one else would find their way down the warren of passageways, particularly as the alleyway led to no-where. Satisfied that they were alone, Sherlock pushed Sally firmly against the cold brick wall and kissed her passionately, his hands sliding inside the coat he had wrapped around her and pulling at the material of her dress. Sally returned the kiss, just as passionately, driving her hands through his curls, feeling his growing erection pressing into her as he pushed against her. Sherlock removed his right hand from around her waist and moved to his trousers. He unzipped his fly and pulled out his firm cock before resuming the onslaught of kisses and returning his hand to her waist, except this time his hands pulled up her dress and pulled down her knickers in one fluid movement. He grabbed hold of her waist and lifted her off the ground, sliding his cock inside her as he did. He paused briefly, balancing Sally between himself and the wall - Sally wrapping her legs around his waist, and then began pushing himself deep inside her. The sex was frantic and fast paced, Sherlock pumping deep inside her, Sally’s breath rasping at the ferocious assault on her body before shuddering into a climax mirrored by Sherlock’s own moan of release. There they remained, entwined together, panting heavily in each other’s arms.

Sally suddenly awoke, the all too familiar feeling of the need to go to the toilet. Sally reached towards her bedside table and glanced at her phone, 1.52am. She placed it back in the side and closed her eyes, hoping to drift back into that delicious dream, back into the sweaty arms of Sherlock and that night, which now seemed forever ago. No, it was no good – she’d have to go.

Sally sat awkwardly up in bed, trying not to disturb Sherlock who seemed to be in a deep sleep beside her. She tip-toed across the bedroom floor and switched on the bathroom light before pausing, leaving the room and slipping out of 221b and down the stairs to 221a. She’d have to be quick.


	2. A Pregnant Pause

Sunlight streamed in through the bedroom window of 221b Baker Street and the room basked in the glorious May morning sun. Sat upright in bed, with his hands steepled underneath his chin, Sherlock looked towards the bedroom door with what could only be described as a look of concern across his brow. He reached across to the bedside cabinet and rummaged in the top draw, his hand searching for something, which his fingertips finally found; a small black notebook. He flicked through the pages and began to count the tally that the book contained. Engrossed in this examination of facts, he did not notice Sally pad quietly back into the bedroom and slip between the sheets.

It had been almost a year since Sally blew into Sherlock’s life and complete upended everything. Originally from Manchester, Sally had moved to London to escape her guilt surrounding the death of her brother who had committed suicide. Despite both trying to avoid the inevitable, nothing could stop the chemistry between the pair, not even the murderous intentions of Jim Moriarty’s younger brother. Much to Sherlock’s disbelief, the impossible had happened and he had allowed his heart to be taken.

Sally looked across at Sherlock, who was busily recording information into his notebook, whilst consulting with his Breitling watch and scribbling furiously. She rolled her eyes.

“How many times do I need to tell you, Sherlock? The amount of times I get up to pee is perfectly normal. My body is trying to figure out how to successfully grow not one, but two babies, not to mention the fact that this has been the hottest two weeks of the year so far and I am drinking the equivalent of the River Thames,” sighed Sally. Unconvinced by her protestations, Sherlock reached across for his phone and quickly typed out a message.

‘221b. Come at once. SH’

Less than a minute later, the phone buzzed into life and a familiar ring tone rang out.

“John…” began Sherlock, answering the phone after only one ring.

“I'm not coming over if this is about wee. You are calculating her urine output again aren’t you Sherlock?” interrupted John, who was speaking loudly enough for Sally to be able to hear him too. “That frequency is perfectly natural in the first trimester Sherlock. I keep telling you...”

“Yes, but there have been an extra three evacuations during the night, including one at 2am that lasted for 20 minutes. That cannot be right.” Sherlock interjected.

“Well, the number of times is irrelevant Sherlock, the bladder isn’t always voided completely. Although 20 minutes does seem a long time…” continued John, at which point Sally snatched the phone from Sherlock.

“I wasn’t just peeing, I went to Mrs. Hudson’s and had ice cream John. I left the bathroom light on, so he wouldn’t suspect. Have you seen this flaming diet sheet he has me on? Wait, what am I thinking? Of course, you have because he bloody well made you do it for me! I am nearly twelve weeks pregnant with twins, it is 28 degrees outside and I WANTED ICE CREAM!” and with that, Sally ended the call.

“Sherlock. I swear to God, if you write down anything else relating to my bodily fluids again, I am going to live with Mrs. Hudson until the babies are born. I know you mean well, but you are driving me crazy!” Sally glared across at Sherlock but instantly regretted her outburst when she saw the look of hurt that was now etched across his face. Even though Sally was more or less used to Sherlock and his emotions and little foibles, she could still be caught off guard. Her annoyance immediately melted away and she raised her hand to cup Sherlock’s cheek in her palm.

“I’m sorry, but honestly – everything is fine and we’ve got the scan next week.”

“I... this is all new…” began Sherlock, but his words were cut off by the lightest of kisses from Sally. She reached across his bare torso and gently picked up his hand and placed it on her barely there bump.

“It’s new to me too. I’ll try harder,” Sally reassured.

Sherlock bent down and placed a small kiss on Sally’s stomach. His world had changed inexplicably these past few weeks and was a change that caused him more perplexity and challenge than anything he had ever faced before but in that moment, his reservations washed away. Maybe it was going to be OK after all?


	3. An Inspector calls

Sally and Sherlock must’ve drifted back to sleep because they were suddenly woken by the sound of sirens coming down Baker Street and the loud hammering on the door, which stopped when it was opened by a very angry Mrs. Hudson who was most disproving of Inspector Lestrade and his colleagues who were now leaping up the steps to 221b two at a time.

Sherlock moved to begin to get dressed, whilst Sally slowly got out of bed and put her dressing gown on. She was the first to leave the bedroom and padded across the kitchen floor, pulling the gown closer around her when she saw that Greg was not alone.

“I presume there is some sort of emergency that involves Sherlock? He’s just dressing. Have you got time for a coffee before you and your trained chimps take him away again?” said Sally, sighing at the intrusion. Before arriving at Baker Street, these events would have struck terror into Sally, but this had now become almost second nature. Sally briefly wondered if her desensitising to these situations was not a good thing.

“You sound like him,” remarked Lestrade, nodding towards the bedroom door. As if on cue, Sherlock emerged from behind the door, adjusting his belt and then pulling at the tie that was draped over his shoulder, ready to be tied around his neck, his collar raised on his shirt in anticipation. Sally glanced towards the door and smiled – he was wearing his purple shirt; her favourite.

“So, that’s a no then,” replied Sally, who turned as if to head back into the bedroom.

“Oh, well – actually – we do have to wait for John to get here so I will have a drink. Guys – everything seems OK here so I may have over thought it on the backup front, you can probably stand down,” said Greg. The two accompanying officers, dressed in full body protection and carrying riffles, looked towards one another and gave the faintest of eye rolls, before heading down the stairs, passing Mrs. Hudson on her way up with a plate of biscuits and a copy of a broadsheet under her arm.

“So, what can I help you with today Lestrade? Someone pinched the tea money? It was Anderson,” said Sherlock, sitting himself down into his usual spot and picking up the newspaper.

“What do you mean? You sent for me?” replied Lestrade, albeit muffled with the jammy dodger that he’d just begun to eat.

“I did no such thing…” began Sherlock, before adding “Mycroft,” in chorus with Lestrade as they both looked towards the open door to 221b through which the eldest of the Holmes brothers had just walked.

“Gentlemen,” remarked Mycroft, placing his umbrella between the wall and the settee and removing his jacket. It was far from raining, the sunlight streaming in through the windows, but Mycroft was a creature of habit and his standard attire did not vary.

“Brother dearest!” said Sally as she walked into the room, now fully dressed. Her voice contained a hint of sarcasm that she reserved for Sherlock’s brother, not least because she knew it amused Sherlock some what to see his brother squirm. She planted a kiss on Mycroft’s cheek before turning and smirking towards Sherlock who smiled in return.

“Ah yes, well… not quite yet,” said Mycroft, slightly flustered as he walked towards the seat normally reserved for John.

“That’s John’s seat,” remarked Sherlock, just as Mycroft was about to sit. 

“Oh for God sake,” said Mycroft, exasperated before walking to the empty chair at Sherlock’s desk. “Is it acceptable to sit here, or is this seat reserved too?”

“I don’t know, Mycroft. Where are you planning on sitting Sally?” smiled Sherlock, thoroughly enjoying himself. Sally did not have chance to answer.

“Ah yes, how is the pregnancy Sherlock? Learnt any knitting patterns recently? I was speaking to mummy only the other day – she says she’ll be coming down for a visit soon to help you baby proof, you’ll enjoy that won’t you little brother?” The smile vanished from Sherlock’s face.

“Now, now boys – behave,” said John as he walked into the flat. “You realise that this is what you have to look forward to Sally. Let’s hope for girls,” he continued, waggling his finger towards the small bump, as he walked towards Sally and gave her a warm hug. “Everything going OK?” he said quietly into her ear. He knew that Sherlock’s continual interference was of constant annoyance to Sally so didn’t want to initiate a full-on list of symptoms from the neurotic father-to-be.

“Well, as fun as this reunion all looks – I’m out. I’m going to head downstairs to my flat to sort some bits out. Sherlock – behave,” said Sally, pecking Sherlock on the cheek as she left. “You too big bro!” she continued, winking at Mycroft as she walked out.

The men watched her leave and waited until they heard the door to 221c shut before continuing.

“So, Mycroft – what is this all about?” enquired John, leaning forward in his chair.

“Moriarty Junior,” replied Mycroft. “He’s not as dead as we first thought.”


	4. The resurrection of Moriarty

“Pardon?” spluttered John and he placed his tea cup back on its saucer. Lestrade rose from his seat, putting his hands to his head. Sherlock did not flinch, almost as if he had already known.

“There were two bodies. We retrieved two bodies,” said Lestrade, sitting down again on the edge of the sofa. “What the hell has happened?”

“The bodies, as you will know Inspector, were burnt beyond identification. Miss Tavistock’s testimonial about the placing of Mr. Wilson’s body and his dental records provided ample identification. Now, Moriarty – that was another matter. His dental records did suggest that it was him, but given the circumstances and previous history, we were not keen to trust this information. The forensic team have finished their final sweep and a small pin was found that has been used in a minor surgery some years before. Tiny, but with a number that we were able to trace back to someone else. We can only deduce that Moriarty somehow managed to escape the blast,” said Mycroft, matter of factly.

Sherlock rose from his chair and walked towards the mantlepiece where a pile of papers had been pierced with a dagger. He grasped the dagger with his right hand, released it from its grip on the woodwork and flung the knife ferociously towards the wall at the far end, where it embedded itself deeply into the wall.

“Christ sake Sherlock!” shouted Lestrade, dodging out of the way of the flying blade. “We’ve got one lunatic too many to deal with right now, don’t need another!”

“Why does he always survive? How does he manage to always survive?” growled Sherlock, swiping ornaments – clutter – from the mantlepiece before slumping back down in this chair and holding his head in his hands.

“So, what is the plan?” asked John.

“Plan?” repeated Mycroft. “Plan? There is no ‘plan’ Dr. Watson. Our suspicions of his survival have only just surfaced. Moriarty has had four weeks to bury himself underground. There has been no other word of his existence. We can only wait.”

“Perhaps he’s retired?” commented Lestrade at which the other three men in the room scoffed at loudly. “Just an idea,” he said. He knew himself it was wishful thinking and regretted saying it out loud. No matter what he said in front of the Holmes brothers and John, he always felt he sounded ridiculous, he didn’t need to make it more obvious.

“Sherlock?” asked John, looking towards his friend and trying to decipher what might be going through the consulting detectives mind. It seemed like an age before Sherlock replied.

“The game is on John. And this time – I am going to win!”


	5. A little white lie

“So what was all that about?” said Sally, returning to the flat after everyone had gone. She wandered over to where Sherlock was sat – unchanged from his position in his arm chair although unbeknown to Sally – and sat down opposite. It was this that elicited a response from Sherlock, who seemed lost in another world.

“You can lower that eyebrow right now Mr. We’ve had this discussion before - this isn’t ‘John’s chair’ it is just a chair,” she sighed. The eyebrow did not lower, but Sherlock resumed his daydreaming state.

“So, it was serious then – hence the brooding?” said Sally. This seemed to shake Sherlock from his reverie. 

“Oh no – just Mycroft wittering away about some government double agent thing. Solved it in less than a minute. Did Mrs. Hudson provide plenty of cream buns?” said Sherlock, very clearly trying to change the subject. Sally looked at him closely, trying to read anything into his body language. Realising this, Sherlock jumped to his feet and walked towards the table which was strewn with a mixture of autopsy pictures, newspaper clippings and various mother and baby magazines and catalogues. He had grown to tolerate the situation of his work space being invaded and they did prove to be useful in situations such as these where a change of subject was needed. “Have you thought anymore about what cot you want?” he continued, beginning to thumb through the pages.

Taking the hint, Sally conceded to the change of subject figuring that she was bound to get to the bottom of what was going on sooner or later. She had to grasp every baby talk opportunities he could get with Sherlock because they were few and far between. 

“I’ve narrowed it down to three different cots, I’ve folded the page corners over,” said Sally getting up and walking towards Sherlock and taking one of the catalogues from him. She went and sat don on the sofa and Sherlock sat down beside her., looking over her shoulder. Sally opened the catalogue and pointed out the first cot she had marked as a possibility. “I like this one because it is actually a cot bed, so when they have outgrown their cots, you can take the bars off and turn them into beds which will last them until they are about seven. Just thought it might save us some money. It just means that they are quite big, so I suppose it depends on how big their nursery is, or if they are going to have a room each.”

“A room each? They’ll have John’s room.”

“What do you mean, they’ll have John’s room? You think we’re living here?”

“Well, obviously. Why on Earth would we want to move? We have everything that we need here.”  
“Are you insane? Twin buggies up those stairs? There is no way I am carrying one twin downstairs to the hallway and leaving it there while I go back upstairs for the next one. Not with the kind of clients you have walking in and out all day. And John’s room as a nursery? I’m not having the twins on a different floor to us.”

“I’m not leaving 221b.”

“Unlucky,” retorted Sally, getting up and walking out before Sherlock could respond. She slammed the door of 221b and walked downstairs to 221c, slamming that door equally as loudly. How could Sherlock even consider this place to be a good place to raise a child? Sally slumped on the sofa in her old flat and sighed. Why did she not realise that Sherlock would not want to move? She’d relaxed into their new situation too much, she’d forgotten she was still dealing with Sherlock. She took her phone out of her pocket and flicked through her contact list. She hit the call button…

Sherlock slumped back down onto the sofa. What on earth would possess Sally to want to move? 221b was a perfect place to bring up the children. Mrs. Hudson was right downstairs and would be the perfect babysitter and John’s room was far enough away from his work space and his bedroom in order to have a decent night sleep. He realised that it was going to take some deep convincing for Sally to agree to staying. His mind briefly wandered as to how he could help persuade her – flowers? Chocolate? Getting the handcuffs out again? Maybe if he offered to have someone decorate John’s room so she could see how perfect it could be as a nursery she might change her mind. He reasoned that it might take a combination of all three. He got up and made his way down to 221c. Good job he still had one of the many copies of the key to Sally’s flat. He opened the door carefully and began to make his way down the stairs, pausing when he heard a voice. It was Sally. She was prone to talking to herself but clearly this was not a one-sided conversation. 

“…I know. Thank you. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you to keep me sane… yeah, tomorrow is fine with me….I don’t know. I’ll just tell him I am baby clothes shopping – I can guarantee he won’t want to come… I’m looking forward to it too.”

Sherlock turned and crept back up the stairs. He wasn’t sure what he has just heard but he knew it didn’t sound good.


	6. Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very much a work in progress. Sherlock is definitely acting very much out of character and is battling some demons but this is all part of what I have outlined for the plot of this story. 
> 
> I hope you are enjoying this, I am enjoying trying to piece the story together. Constructive criticism / advice is welcome. Kudos is very much appreciated.

Just as she had said, the following day, Sally announced that she was going shopping. Sherlock offered to go with her but Sally was quick to shoot him down, telling him that it was only baby clothes shopping and that she was probably not going to buy anything just yet as she wanted to play it safe until the 20 week scan and surely he would be bored just browsing. Sherlock agreed reluctantly – he had hoped that his concerns from the day before would be easily explained, perhaps Sally was just meeting up with a friend. He knew that she still kept in touch with Gill from school, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t the school holidays, although he’d be the first to admit that inconsequential information like that was not worth keeping in his mind. 

Sherlock walked to the window of 221b and stared absent-mindedly out of the window. He watched Sally get into a taxi and briefly contemplated following her but thought better of it. He wandered over to his chair and slouched down, draping his legs over the arm of the chair. He reached into his jacket breast pocket and fished out his phone. He twiddled it over and over, idly in his hand, not sure what he really wanted to do. He contemplated texting John but he knew that his patience was wearing thin in the relationship advice department. This was exactly the reason why he frowned upon entering into any kind of relationship. Adapting to being in one was more complex than Sherlock ever envisaged. He flipped the phone over once more and then leapt from his seat and headed towards his laptop. He quickly opened the lid and began searching through the list of programs until he found the one he wanted. Whilst Sally’s phone had been destroyed in the explosion, she had gotten a new one and Sherlock felt it wise to ensure this had the same tracking capabilities, although he did ‘forget’ to share the information with Sally. 

Soon enough, Sally’s phone had been detected – she was at Campania which, according to TripAdvisor, was an Italian restaurant that wasn’t overly good. Why not go to Angelo’s - the food was far better. Because she didn’t want Angelo to report back to Sherlock she’d been there? He expanded the location point and looked at the report feedback – she’d gone straight there. No shopping in between. He checked his watch – 10.30. Sally had eaten before she left so wouldn’t be needing to eat right now. Sherlock slammed the laptop lid shut and let out a loud expletive. What the hell was happening to him here. What was he becoming? He picked up his phone and text John: ‘221b – come quickly’. He waited for the familiar ping back but it didn’t come. He resent the text and still no response. Sherlock walked towards the door to 221b, growling with frustration and then slammed the door behind him before running down the stairs.

“Sherlock?” asked Mrs. Hudson, poking her head out of her kitchen door, but her call went unanswered as Sherlock slammed the front door behind him. 

He walked to the curb, and quickly hailed a cab. “Barts,” he said curtly before turning his head to look out of the cab window. He took his phone from his pocket once more. Still no response from John. He quickly typed out another message: ‘I need a body. SH’ followed quickly by ‘And a whip’ before he could put his phone back, it buzzed into life: ‘sure: )' Sherlock smiled weakly, at least he could count on Molly even if it did mean he had to humour her use of emoji’s instead of a proper sign off.


	7. Barts

Molly was busily analysing a blood sample when Sherlock’s presence in the building was announced with the heavy opening and then slamming of doors in the corridor. When the doors to the lab were flung open, Molly simply held out her left hand that was clutching a whip and allowed Sherlock to snatch it from her. Once it was gone, she then pointed with her right hand towards a body that had already be left out on the slab.

Fifteen minutes later, a sweaty Sherlock laid down his riding crop. Molly had left him to his own devices during his assault on Mr. H Dennis but was now curious to see what Sherlock was going to do next. He began to make his way to the door, paused and turned back to look towards Molly, but then thought better of it and walked again towards the door.

“What’s up Sherlock?” asked Molly, scraping her chair back as she stood and walked around the table.

“Nothing,” said Sherlock, still facing the door although no longer moving. 

“Come on Sherlock – you only ever come here to beat up a corpse when there is something on your mind. Is it Sally or the babies?” said Molly, folding her arms.

“What makes you think that?” asked Sherlock, turning now to face Molly.

“Because if it wasn’t about them, I wouldn’t be your first port of call. I presume John has got fed up with it no or else you’d be with him.”

“He didn’t reply to my message.”

“Right.” There was a hint of hurt in Molly’s voice that her suspicions about her place in Sherlock’s pecking order of importance was correct. She turned away and began to busy herself. She picked up Sherlock’s riding crop and put it away in a cupboard near to where she had been working. She then turned her attention to the paperwork on the desk. 

“I’ve hurt your feelings,” said Sherlock quietly, as he watched her.

“Nope. I’m fine,” replied Molly, not looking up and continuing about her tidying. Sherlock walked towards her and touched her shoulder. She stopped and turned to look at him.

“You get flustered and tidy when I have upset you Molly. I’m glad my insensitivities no longer make you cry though,” Sherlock noted, looking at Molly. He pecked her gently on the cheek. “I am sorry, you are very important to me – more than you know and I have not returned your kindness or shown the meaning of your friendship.”  
“It’s OK, Sherlock. Really.”

“Do you want a coffee?” Sherlock asked.

“Sure, I’ll go make you one,” replied Molly, moving away and going towards the kettle.

“No, I meant to go out somewhere and get one? Although it will be decaffeinated for you. You’ve been at working since 3am this morning, as you have for the past four days running and having a coffee after midday will not support a positive sleep this evening and help you to get out of the habit.”

“Oh no, do I really look that bad that you can tell?” asked Molly, looking into the reflective surface of the nearest cabinet. 

“No, I saw the signing in sheet when I arrived. You need to take care of yourself Molly.”

“Don’t do caring Sherlock, it doesn’t suit you.” 

“I am supposed to now-a-days – haven’t you heard? It gets very tedious the vast majority of the time but even I can see some benefit to having some emotions. Molly – I need you.”

Molly rolled her eyes and went to collect her bag from where she had placed it that morning. Why did she always allow herself to get drawn into Sherlock’s mess. She wished she could stand up to him and say no. She walked past Sherlock who followed silently afterwards.

Two lattes later, Sherlock had finally finished explaining everything to Molly who sat and listened patiently to Sherlock.

“John is right. You are over analysing everything. Sherlock. Why do you feel the need to take control of everything, which, I realise is a silly question because it is you Sherlock, but really! If you want your relationship to work, you need to relax.” 

“I don’t know how!”

“That is obvious Sherlock and I don’t know how to help you. The key here is honesty. You are making a mistake not telling Sally about Moriarty and instead of tracking Sally, you should have said outright what you heard. It’s more than likely innocent – Sally isn’t the type to have an affair. That stuff with Nick was manipulated by you, not her. You need to be truthful about what is happening and trust that Sally is a big girl who can deal with situations she might end up in.” Sally scraped her chair back and left Sherlock to his thoughts.


	8. Honesty is the best policy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please bare with me on this - I am not 100% happy with how it is going. I have the plot in my head but am struggling to marry events with character behaviour. Polite and helpful feedback is very welcome!

Sherlock mulled over Molly’s words for the entire taxi ride back to 221b. He was certain that he would not be sharing the tracking app information with Sally – everything was still quite tentative, especially following the discussion about where they would live. But what about Moriarty? And what about where she had been today? The taxi arrived at Baker Street and Sherlock absent-mindedly slipped the cabby a note. He paused outside before slowly putting his key in the lock and walking inside. He stood briefly in the hall way before becoming aware of the sound of voices from upstairs which made him leap up the stairs and come skidding into 221b making Sally, Gregg and John turn and stare at the doorway.

“What’s got into you?” asked Gregg, taking a sip from his cup of coffee. 

Sherlock stared back, slightly reaching for his breath before stammering his reply, “Oh, er, nothing – just heard you from downstairs and thought you might have been initiating another one of your infamous ‘drug busts’.”

“Do we need to?” asked Gregg, finishing his drink and wandering off into the kitchen. John got up from his chair and walked towards Sherlock.

“Everything alright?” asked John, quietly.

“Yes, yes, fine.” Said Sherlock, brushing past John and following Gregg into the kitchen. “There is nothing in there,” continued Sherlock, taking the lid of the biscuit barrel from Gregg and replacing it before ushering him out of the kitchen. 

“Alright!” said Gregg, almost falling over his feet as he was forced back into the sitting room. “Sally mentioned something about a diet, didn’t think we all needed to be on it.”

“It’s not a diet. I’m not on a diet!” exclaimed Sally. “Sherlock, what the hell is wrong with you? Racing in like a lunatic...”

“So, what do you want Lestrade?” said Sherlock, completely ignoring Sally’s question and sitting down in his chair. Sally rolled her eyes and walked off towards the bedroom. She was not in the mood for Sherlock’s guessing games.

Both Lestrade and John watched as Sally left the room and waited until the door shut before they began to speak, John walking to his chair and sitting down.

“So, which one of us sounds like Moriarty then?” asked John, raising an eye brow.

“What? Oh – er, yes. I believe I may have something called ‘Baby Brain’. There was something about it in a medical journal I have read recently.”  
“Since when has ‘Mother and Baby’ magazine been a medical journal Sherlock?” said John, nodding his head towards an open magazine on the coffee table. “And, even if it did exist, it only affects women.”

“Urgh.. this is all very boring. Why are you here Lestrade?”

“I have a case for you. Do you remember Lord Moran?”

“Remember him? I was almost blown to pieces by his plot to blow up Parliament,” retorted John.

“Well, he’s been corresponding quite heavily with Professor Summerlee – quite a renowned scientist who was suspected to be working with the Russians on chemical weapons and who was ‘relieved of his duties’ two years ago. It turns out the two are very distantly related. All the letters have been intercepted and there is nothing significant in the letters but… I know how you like to be kept up to date.”

“I’ll need to see the letters,” said Sherlock almost inaudibly.

“Thought you might say that,” replied Lestrade. He reached into the breast pocket of his blazer and removed a small wad of paper. He passed them to Sherlock. “This was the last months lot.”

Sherlock looked up towards Lestrade’s outstretched hand but did not move to take the letters and instead looked disdainfully at the detective.

“Envelopes,” sighed Sherlock.

“Sorry, what?” remarked Lestrade.

“Envelopes, I need the envelopes.”

“Why..?” began Lestrade, but he stopped talking, realising that it was futile to question as it would only lead to further ridicule. “…They are back at the station. I’ll go get them.” And with that he turned and walked out of the flat.

Sherlock rose to his feet and absently mindedly started to finger through documents left on his desk before wandering over to the mantel piece and picking up the skull that sat of the far-right hand side.

“I am still here, Sherlock.” Sighed John. “What is it? Molly said you went to see her.”

Sherlock quickly whipped round to look at John. “Did she tell you what we discussed?”

“No, of course not. Just that you went to see her and that Henry won’t be winning the ‘Best Corpse 2018’ award this year.”

Sherlock sighed heavily. “Which is Molly code for Sherlock’s losing it. Well, I am not – I’m OK. I’m going to tell Sally about Moriarty, I going to solve Lestrade’s stupid case and them I’m going ‘house hunting’ so I can be the perfect father and the perfect husband and the perfect whatever else I am supposed to be,” his voice wobbling as his punctuated his tirade with air quotes. He slumped back down in his chair.

“Sally wants to move?” queried John, raising an eyebrow and speaking in hushed tones. He was conscious of the fact that she was still just in the bedroom. Sherlock did not look up.

“And I suppose you agree with her?”

“Well, maybe not. Surely she must realise how quickly everything is moving for you and will be patient. You do still have plenty of time for decisions like that.”

Sherlock looked up at John. “I don’t know anymore. I am trying my best but it doesn’t seem good enough and this isn’t me..” Sherlock waived his arm across the flat which, John had to admit, was more a nursery than a consulting detectives meeting place. 

“Just give it time. Throw yourself into whatever this thing Lestrade has got and I’ll get Mary to speak to Sally.” Sherlock looked nervously towards John. “Without her knowing obviously.” Finished John. Sherlock nodded.

“Look, why don’t you go and speak to Sally now? What can happen with me in here? Lestrade is going to be a while and at least when he comes back, it’ll force the conversation to end.” Said John. Again, Sherlock nodded in agreement and rose slowly from his chair before making his way across towards the bedroom.


	9. Truth

John pushed the chair back from the desk, leant back and stretched before looking at his watch. Half an hour had passed since Sherlock had disappeared into his bedroom to discuss Moriarty with Sally. There had been no huge screams, no items thrown, and no doors slammed: it must have gone better than Sherlock has thought. John got up from his seat and began to walk across the living room of 221b, heading towards to kitchen to make another cup of tea. The kettle had just finished boiling when John heard footsteps on the stairs. He walked back towards the mug cupboard and collected another – the footsteps belonged to Lestrade.

“John? Sherlock?” called Lestrade, as he opened the flat. 

“In the kitchen,” called John as he poured hot water into the cups and reached for the milk.

“Where’s Sherlock?” enquired Lestrade, as he took the cup from John, “Thanks,” He continued, taking a sip.

John motioned his head towards the bedroom door and took a sip himself.

“Ahh. He is still alive in there I presume?”

John gave a slight chuckle and headed towards the door. He held his hand out to knock, but the door opened before he could.

“Yes, perfectly alive, but thank you for your concern.” Said Sherlock, straightening his collar and running his hands through his curls. “Sally is sleeping. Boil the kettle John.”

“It has just finished…” 

“I need steam,” said Sherlock. He strode towards Lestrade and held his hand out. Lestrade fished into his jacket pocket and extracted a small pile of envelopes. John sighed and rolled his eyes before flicking the switch of the kettle back into the on position. It instantly began to boil again.

“We haven’t got all of them – some of the letters were without…”

“Shut up,” said Sherlock. He held the edge of one of the envelopes over the steam coming from the kettle, before fishing into his jacket pocket and producing a small set of tweezers. He held the envelope up and gently removed the stamp from the envelope, walking over to the central island in the kitchen and placing it on a board. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a magnifying glass and leant over to read the tiny scrawl that was all over the stamp. He threw the lens onto the counter and strode towards the living room, remarking “Child’s play,” towards Lestrade as he passed. Lestrade walked towards the kitchen counter, picked up the magnifying glass and began to read for himself.  
“What does it say?” asked John, looking between the two of them.

“It’s written in code. We’d need the Cipher in order to work it out.” Said Sherlock, matter-of-factly as he sat down in his chair.

“How has he been able to do this?” asked John.

“He will have been afforded certain privileges due to his position,” said Lestrade.

“What position? He tried to blow up parliament!” exclaimed John.

“What does it matter? The real question is why. He owns the house on the grounds of Farringdon Park, I think we’ll pay it a visit tomorrow.” Said Sherlock and with that he closed his eyes, resting his hands beneath his chin.


End file.
